Scars of the Past
by Kitcat39
Summary: It had been years since Ja'far was an assassin. He wasn't proud of what he did during his childhood, but he thought he had long since moved past that. However, not all scars are physical, and some scars never heal. Spoilers for Adventures of Sinbad. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Magi**

 **Warnings: violent thoughts, self-harm, suggested mental illness, spoilers for Adventures of Sinbad**

 **AN: I've been reading Adventures of Sinbad, and it turns out little Ja'far was one sick puppy before Sinbad came along. It would make sense that, even though he grew up all nice and normal, he would still be traumatized by his childhood. So I did some research into PTSD, added in my own experience with anxiety disorders, and made this lovely, depressing fic.**

Scars of the Past

Ja'far liked to think that he had left his past behind when he had decided to travel with Sinbad. However, no matter how skilled he was at lying, he was never all that good at lying to himself. No amount of denial could allow him to forget the blood that stained his hands even a decade and a half after he had left that life for a better one. Underneath his facade of manners and polite smiles, he continued to be the ruthless assassin who had murdered dozens of people at an age when most children were still afraid the dark.

Sometimes Ja'far managed to forget his origins. He buried himself in the role of general and advisor, working until nothing but the mind-numbing bureaucracy of keeping a kingdom running stuck in his head. Those moments when he became so thoroughly and completely lost in his work that he could barely even recall his own name were a respite that he gladly accepted. However, the smallest things were able to break through the walls he put up around the less savory aspects of himself. On a bad day, the mere sight of something as simple as the color red could trigger a flood of dangerous thoughts that enjoyed anything that reminded him of the blood he had spilt. No matter how he fought such intrusive thoughts, he could never win. They seemed to feed off his fear of them, growing stronger and more malicious until he was forced to make excuses and flee to somewhere quiet to collect himself.

Ja'far knew that he was not going to have a pleasant day when he walked in on Sharrkan and Yamraiha arguing and almost immediately had to fight the urge to slit their throats so they would shut the hell up. They stopped bickering as soon as he came in, likely embarrassed that someone was witnessing yet another one of their petty squabbles, but it didn't matter. The idea was stuck in his mind now and it didn't intend on leaving anytime soon. Ja'far frowned at the two of them and automatically began lecturing them on the importance of proper conduct befitting people of their station while violent images and plans swirled through his head. He tried to stop them, but he couldn't help thinking that he would have to take Yamraiha out first before she had the chance to cast a spell and it would have to be quick so he would probably just slice open her carotid artery and move on to Sharrkan while he was distracted by her death and-

Ja'far dug his fingernails into his palms, letting the stabs of pain derail his train of thought. Yamraiha and Sharrkan looked suitably chastised, so it was best that he leave before his bloodthirsty brain took its ideas any further. He turned towards the door, but was blocked by a huge, familiar figure.

"Lecturing the children again, Ja'far?" Hinahoho laughed. He smiled back weakly, taking in the large man who would defeat him in a straight fight but Ja'far had a weapon suitable for fighting at a distance so he could stay just out of arm's reach and cut away at Hinahoho until he lost enough blood that he-

Hinahoho grinned and patted him on the back, practically knocking the wind out of him. Ja'far had to forcibly restrain himself from retaliating, from hurting the man who was hurting him even though this wasn't an attacker, this was his friend and he couldn't just grab the hand resting on his shoulder and slash a blade across the exposed veins in his wrist and-

"Er, are you okay?" Hinahoho asked, snapping Ja'far back into reality.

"I'm fine," he replied, nails still digging into his hands. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Most of the time he could handle himself and keep his awful thoughts at bay, but today he just couldn't. He had been under a lot of stress lately though, what with the threat of the Kou empire and everything. However, knowing the reason behind it didn't help with the result.

Suddenly, Ja'far felt something hot and wet spreading across his fingers. At first he wrote it off as sweat, just his nerves acting up, but then the pain hit him. Somehow he had managed to cut open his own palms without noticing. Blood was on his hands, a familiar feeling though it wasn't usually his own.

Sharrkan said something to him, but he couldn't quite hear it. His focus narrowed to the warm, sticky fluid wetting his hands that was bringing back the memories that he had tried so hard to seal away. He shouldn't be able to remember so vividly, it had been so long ago and he had been so very young, but the images filled his head like a hall of portraits all staring at him with their dead eyes. Fulvius the Reiman diplomat that had probably been a spy, Leila the prostitute who tried to blackmail some political bigwig, Najib the merchant that cheated the crown out of their share, and those were just the ones that stood out from the crowd of corpses that haunted him. So many more were nameless strangers that he had been told to kill, and he had just done it, no questions asked. All of Ja'far's victims flashed before his eyes, their faces white and their throats cut and their eyes still looking at him and accusing him and asking why he had killed them and-

Someone grabbed at Ja'far, holding him by the shoulders and shaking him, talking to him, but he couldn't focus enough to listen. Everything seemed blurry and bloody and he didn't quite understand what was going on. Large arms wrapped around him, prompting him to start struggling because he was probably being pulled into a chokehold, but it never came. Those arms that could have easily snapped him in half like a toothpick seemed content to hold him gently, like he was a child again. Ja'far leaned against the solid chest he was being pressed against, taking a moment to regulate his breathing and realizing that he had nearly passed out from hyperventilating. He decided that this was a nice place to rest, if only for a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here's chapter two! There will probably be one more chapter after this, and possibly an epilogue. Thank you for reading!**

Chapter Two

Ja'far was not quite sure how much time had passed while he was being coddled by the man he could now tell was Hinahoho, though he didn't feel up to opening his eyes and checking. He didn't want to ruin the feeling of calm and security that he had taken refuge in. However, no good thing lasted forever. A door squeaked open, the sound causing Ja'far to flinch even further into Hinahoho's embrace.

"Uh, am I interrupting something?"

It was Sinbad. Of course it was Sinbad, the man was the king of being where he was not wanted. Ja'far hated it when Sin saw him lose control like this. He despised showing weakness, especially in front of his king. It awakened the old fear that if he wasn't good and useful and perfect he would be killed. He often had to remind himself that this was Sindria, not the Sham Lash, and that Sinbad would never have him executed for something as petty as that. It was a totally irrational fear, but that didn't seem to matter to his subconscious.

"Is something wrong?" Sinbad asked. A hand touched Ja'far's shoulder. He jerked violently away from it before he could stop himself. The hand quickly retreated.

"Easy, Sinbad," Hinahoho cautioned, "He's just having a bit of a rough day. Aren't you, Ja'far?"

He wanted to respond, but it was like all the tension in his body had gone to his throat and tied his vocal cords in knots. He settled for nodding meekly against Hinahoho's stomach, realizing only then that his face was damp with tears. He unclenched his fists and winced as the drying blood tugged at his wounds.

Sinbad gasped. "Wait a- is he bleeding? Why is he bleeding?"

Ja'far opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like hours, blinking the salt from them as he glanced down at his hands. It did look pretty bad, though it was far from the worst injury he'd ever gotten. His fingers and palms were dyed a dark, sticky red, the same color as the four crescent moons carved into each hand. Each one throbbed in time with his overly-fast heartbeat, sending stabs of pain shooting up his arms. He noticed that his sleeves were also stained, and a small, numb corner of his brain started fretting about how hard it is to get bloodstains out of his robes.

"Sinbad, will you please go get some bandages?" Hinahoho asked, holding Ja'far a little closer. He sounded calm, but Ja'far could feel the muscles in his stomach tensing up, like he was trying not to pull the injured man into a literally bone-crushing hug.

"Of course," Sinbad answered. He also sounded calm, but Ja'far knew it was an act, though a well-practiced one. He had served under his king long enough to know the tone Sin used when he was panicking but didn't want to show it. If he was feeling less weak and miserable, he would be scolding Sin for getting upset over something so minor when there were much worse things happening. Ja'far wasn't worth his worry when Sindria was on the verge of war.

The door banged shut as Sinbad left, leaving Ja'far alone with Hinahoho once more. He squirmed in the larger man's grip, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He must look so pathetic, clinging to Hinahoho like a fretful child. Hinahoho refused to let go though, instead maneuvering him over to a chair and only releasing him when he had collapsed onto it.

Ja'far let his head droop, utterly worn out despite it not even being noon yet. He rested his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to clasp them together as he usually did for fear that they would start bleeding again. Hinahoho knelt beside him, still the taller of the two even though he was on the floor.

"Are you feeling better now?" Hinahoho asked, his voice a soothing rumble. Ja'far hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. The answer this time was a shake of Ja'far's head. The only thing he needed was bandages, and Sin was already dealing with that. He hoped the king would hurry up though. The way the day was going, the sight of his own blood might trigger something, and he was too tired and frazzled to deal with anything else today.

"Do you feel like talking about it?" was Hinahoho's next question. This was one that probably couldn't be answered with a simple gesture. Ja'far swallowed, his throat tight and dry. He wiped his sleeve across his face, suddenly self-conscious of the tears and snot on it. Of course, he probably just made the whole mess look worse and might have even smeared some blood onto his cheeks. He cleared his throat, and nervously cleared it again. He felt Hinahoho's hand rest on his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

"Not yet," Ja'far rasped, his voice almost a whisper. It was humiliating how weak he was, not even able to speak properly. His face flushed, drowning out his freckles in a wave of pink. He fiddled with his sleeve, past caring about the blood staining it. He waited for Hinahoho to speak again, ask another question he didn't want to answer, but the larger man didn't. He just starting rubbing Ja'far back, tracing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Ja'far felt the muscles in his shoulders relax, letting go of tension he didn't even realize was there.

"It's okay, you don't have to talk now," Hinahoho murmured, "How about we wait until Sin comes back with the bandages, okay?"

Ja'far nodded and slumped down in his chair. At least he had some time to think out a decent explanation. Sinbad was probably still panicking, and would demand an explanation as soon as he came back. He sighed and wiped at his face again before he remembered that it wouldn't help. This was going to be difficult.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sinbad poked his head into the room, uncharacteristically meek. Ja'far would have laughed if it wasn't so awkward. Sin was many things, but meek was not one of them. He radiated pride like an egotistical sun. He entered every room with the confidence of one who knows that everyone within should be honored to be in his presence. It was disturbingly comedic to see the man who had conquered seven dungeons practically tiptoe through the door, like he was walking into a lion cage instead of an office. Of course, seeing one of the few stable people in his life have a break down would shake anyone's confidence.

"I've got bandages," Sinbad stated, breaking the silence, "And ointment, too. Is he-"

"I'm fine," Ja'far answered before he could finish the question. It was disconcerting, hearing the nervous quaver in Sin's voice and knowing it was all his fault. The familiar sensation of guilt gnawed at him, eroding what little self-worth he had managed to salvage. He should be the only one effected, it was his problem after all, but it never worked out that way. His lack of self control and his inability to hide his feelings from the others just dragged them down with him. Now Sin was just as miserable as he was, and he felt awful.

Sinbad walked toward Ja'far slowly, holding the bandages out like a peace offering. "So, uh, do you need help with the, uh, you know?" he stuttered, making wrapping motions with his hands.

"I'm fine," Ja'far repeated, grabbing the roll of bandages. He winced as the motion reignited the pain in his palms. He ignored it though, and began clumsily wrapping the soft fabric around his hands. Soon the pristine whiteness was smeared with bloody fingerprints as he struggled to knot it off.

"Here, let me do it," Sinbad said as he shoved himself into Ja'far's personal space and quickly tied the bandages off before moving on to Ja'far's other hand, not bothering to ask Ja'far for permission. In less than a minute his wounds were hidden from sight, though the pain still lingered. He flexed his fingers, making sure that the bandages weren't too tight in a weak attempt at delaying the inevitable. He could feel Hinahoho's gaze boring into the back of his head and he was sure that if he looked up, he could see Sinbad doing the same. They deserved an explanation, he was well aware of that, and they wouldn't let him slink away without giving them one. He wasn't a kid anymore, he couldn't just run away and hide until it blew over.

"I'm fine," he said again, though he didn't quite know who he was trying to convince, "I just, well, I'm not-"

He fell silent again as he tried to organize his thoughts, to line them up in neat little rows instead of the roiling mess that was twisting through his gut. He opened his mouth again, and gave the only explanation he could think of: "I've just been really stressed lately."

It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it. Everyone in the palace, the city, and even the country had been stressed out lately, and they all seemed to be handling it well enough. Nobody else was crying like a baby and hurting themselves by accident. Unconsciously, he started picking at his bandages as he tried to think up a way to explain, or even better, to get out while he still had a shred of his dignity left. He could tell the truth, he supposed, but then what? How would Sinbad and Hinahoho react to knowing that he broke down because he was planning how to kill-

"That's bullshit," Sinbad said in an incongruously soft tone, "Tell us what's really going on."

Ja'far jerked, his eyes meeting Sinbad's for a moment before looking away just as quickly. Sin's gaze burned like molten gold, searing into his reddened, puffy eyes. He could more easily stare into the sun than meet his king's accusing stare.

"Look at me, Ja'far," Sinbad said in that quietly commanding tone that brooked no arguments. A hand gently pushed Ja'far's chin upward, forcing him to meet Sin's gaze.

"I can't fix it if I don't know what's going on," Sinbad murmured, eyes still ablaze with emotion. Ja'far hated those eyes. They always made him tell the truth.

His mouth started moving without his say-so, words pouring out like blood from of a cut throat. He told them every gory, reddened detail. He told them about every murderous idea that stuck in his head and refused to leave, every flashback that made him scratch at his skin until he bled, every time he nearly did something drastic because he just couldn't take it anymore. Once he started talking he couldn't stop until he was empty of words.

Ja'far didn't realize he was crying again until he felt tears soaking through his bandages. Hinahoho was touching him again, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. Sinbad was touching him too, resting his hand on Ja'far's arm. He wanted to shove them both away. He felt scared, and dangerous, and scared of being dangerous. He didn't want their kindness or their sympathy, and he especially didn't want the gentle, soothing words they were murmuring at him.

"Its okay."

It wasn't.

"You're okay."

He wasn't.

"We aren't afraid."

They were.

"We'll help you."

They couldn't.

"We'll always be here for you."

They won't.

"We love you."

They do.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Last chapter, everyone! Thank you for all the lovely reviews, favorites and follows, it means more than you think. Hope you like the ending!**

Chapter Four

Ja'far didn't really remember most of the day after that. He vaguely recalled being led to his chambers, but everything else was a blank until he woke up the next morning. It was a bit worrying that he had slept through nearly an entire day, but not all that surprising. He hadn't slept for more than three or four hours at a time in a week, or was it two weeks? Or maybe three? He couldn't remember.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, squinting at the bright morning light filtering through his blanket. He poked his head out from under the covers, noticing that somehow he had ended up in his pajamas. He looked around his room, from the neatly folded robes resting at the foot of his bed, to the cup of water and plate of food perched on his nightstand. He looked out the window, which had presumably been left open by someone to let in the breeze, and estimated that it was close to noon. He suddenly sat up, a jolt of panic shooting up his spine. He usually got up at dawn, and even then he barely got his work done, and on top of that, he barely did anything the day before. He could practically feel the crushing pressure of the ever-increasing pile of work that was surely accumulating on his desk pressing down on him, making it harder to breathe or even think.

Ja'far took a deep breath in a vain attempt at fending off the mounting stress and swung his legs over the side of his bed, intending to get ready for the day. However, he was sidetracked by the meal that had left for him. He eyed it, his stomach clenching angrily, reminding him that he hadn't really eaten anything in. . . two days? Maybe three? He didn't eat when he was stressed, but the sight of food sent a pang of hunger through his gut that he couldn't ignore. He gulped down some water and set the plate in his lap, ignoring the little voice that nagged at him to get up already and stop wasting time. He couldn't serve his king if he didn't eat properly, right?

He surveyed his plate, stomach grumbling loudly at the sight. It was simple fare, just a few slices of buttered bread and a peeled orange, but he had never been much of a fan of the rich foods that most of his fellow generals adored. He gobbled it down, pushing away the thoughts buzzing around his head that warned him that he didn't know where it came from or who made it so it might be poisoned.

Feeling much better now that his stomach had been filled, he turned to set the plate back on his nightstand, but found that it was already occupied. A note sat where the plate had, likely pinned underneath it for safekeeping. He swapped it for the plate and unfolded the paper, recognizing Sinbad's handwriting in an instant.

Ja'far-

You have the rest of the day off. Don't worry, we'll be able to do without you for a day. Yamraiha will be doing your work because she feels bad for what happened yesterday, so you won't be stressed out about the paperwork piling up. Sharrkan offered to help too, but you've seen his handwriting, you know why he won't be.

Anyway, don't even try to leave your room for anything besides meals today. All of your cronies are under strict orders not to let you near your desk until tomorrow morning. You deserve to spend the day sleeping, or reading, or getting drunk. I know what I would do in your position.

If you want to talk about yesterday, you know where to find me, or Hinahoho if you'd prefer him. We'll both listen to whatever you need to say. We won't judge you, we promise.

-Sinbad

Ja'far stared at the paper, running his fingertips over each letter, the ink still wet enough that it rubbed off on his hand. He kept doing it until his fingers were stained black, clashing with his pale skin and the white bandages still wrapped around his hands. Carefully putting down the letter, he clenched and spread his hands a few times, testing them. When they merely ached instead of throbbed, he unwound the bandages on his left hand, then his right. In the clear morning light, his wounds looked better than he thought they would. If he ignored the layer of blood encrusting them, they actually looked. . . small.

Ja'far let out a laugh, one part bitter to two parts relief, at how tiny those eight little cuts were. He had been worried that they would be gaping wounds full of dead skin and pus, that they would prevent him from picking up his household vessel, or even so much as a pen, for days, or even weeks. But in reality, they were minor. They would heal in time, like all wounds did.

He tied the bandages on again, making a mental note to stop by the infirmary for some new ones later, and flopped backwards onto his bed. He wriggled his way back under the covers and curled up into a ball, making a conscious effort to relax all of his muscles. Unthinkingly, he reached out and grabbed Sinbad's letter again, tucking it underneath his pillow before laying his head down on it. His eyelids began to slide closed, since he was somehow still exhausted despite the frankly excessive amount of the sleep he had already had. He may have work to do, and he knew that he would have to go back to it tomorrow, but today, he could rest. And so, for the first time in quite some time, he did.


End file.
